Polly at Rest
A week ago, I was complaining how Sundays were the worst. Then we were attacked by squids, and that just a couple of weeks after the Island had scared me silly by presenting me with a Doctor out to take over the Island. Things were just... confused. As nice as my conversation with Mother had been, things were still awkward. Things were awkward between me and Bridge, and I hadn't seen Sean in a while.
I'd learned my lesson. Maybe it was time to spend a little time by myself, for once. I'd done my obligations to the preschool and to keeping the kitchen clean. I found a decent-looking book from the bookshelf -- A Severed Wasp, by someone called Madeleine L'Engle -- and I made a thermos-full of tea to take back to my hut. There, I sat on an impromptu chair (a stump set up against the wall of my hut), leaned back and started to read.
"Well, well," I said as I flipped through the first pages.
It was a book about Katherine Forrester, a renown pianist from my day. But what was the book doing telling her life as if it were a story? Was this some new form of docudrama novelized?
I settled back and read some more.
I'd learned my lesson. Maybe it was time to spend a little time by myself, for once. I'd done my obligations to the preschool and to keeping the kitchen clean. I found a decent-looking book from the bookshelf -- A Severed Wasp, by someone called Madeleine L'Engle -- and I made a thermos-full of tea to take back to my hut. There, I sat on an impromptu chair (a stump set up against the wall of my hut), leaned back and started to read.
"Well, well," I said as I flipped through the first pages.
It was a book about Katherine Forrester, a renown pianist from my day. But what was the book doing telling her life as if it were a story? Was this some new form of docudrama novelized?
I settled back and read some more.